


Shower Time

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 09:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10568580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Phasma is getting used to water showers.





	

Phasma has only ever known sonic showers and the occasional basin-wash. It’s all she’s ever needed to get clean, but since Kylo invited her into his life and rooms, she’s been utterly spoilt.(In many, many ways.)

Her body is still lightly tingling from the lovemaking, her pulse making her lips tingle and throb dully, like little aftershocks of pleasure. The sticky evidence of both of their arousal splatters in patches over their bodies, diluted by sweat and kisses. She _could_ still sonic it off, but Kylo prefers the complete indulgence that is hot, running water… and she’s starting to feel the same way.

It will take a moment for the water to warm, and he stands behind her as she keeps dipping her fingers in and out of the stream. His arms curl protectively around her belly, a thumb in her navel and nonsense-scribbles of his fingers on her warm skin. The cold tiles beneath her feet are an interesting counterpoint to the heat of him, and his lips never lift from her neck and nape, threatening to unlock her knees.

She smiles, reaching over her head to tangle her hand in his hair, and tugs him after her into the now-warm water. Kylo follows obediently, and it’s up to her to grab the soapy gel, pouring some into his hands so he can work them over her. They have a ritual, here, and she puts both hands into his hair and arches her back as his clever hands slide bubbles up and down, working at the come-splatter stains, easing at her muscles. They drag over her flanks, and up to her breasts, and she moans as his generous grip supports her breasts. Pressed full-length behind her, he washes them in unison, making her too-sensitive nipples spark again under his expert touches. Up, over, shoulders, down. 

Next comes the most intimate part of the wash, as he rinses his hands clean of soap, and rubs his fingers through the sodden curls of her lap, gently cleaning the evidence away. She’s still a little too-raw, and when he parts her lips to slick between them, she has to brace to cope with the touches. (There’s no way she can climax again, but it’s still too much to handle.) Over and out, and down to her inner thighs.

Phasma turns as he bids her, and wraps her arms around his shoulders as he washes down her back. Their lips meet in soft kisses whilst he unknots any tension, and grabs her ass to pull her closer. (Which means she’s a little messy again, but the spray will see to that when she cleans him.) His lips are soft and smiling as they lick at one another, and then she pushes him back into the wall, grabbing her own set of bubbles.

Kylo’s chest is a wonder, and she pushes almost too-hard as she soaps it clean, kneading and sluicing. The water whorls around her body as she works, making the backs of her calves turn pink from the heat, but it’s like being held by slippery, insistent, warm hands. Down to his belly, and she carefully lifts his spent cock (still plenty big enough) to push the skin back and clean with diligent hands. Over his balls, over his thighs… and he turns, without needing to be asked.

His back is just as strong, and she washes, lingering around the scratch marks her nails have etched into his pale skin today. A grin, and she kisses one, loving the hiss of pleasure. Down, to his ass, and he’s a puddle in her grip, melting and moving like the water itself.

That done, all that remains is their hair. She does his, first, coiling wet snakes down from his head, and rinsing it into a black waterfall. Kylo moans loudest then, and she feels the ache of distant arousal at his sounds. (Later. Later, body.) 

Kylo turns with a screech of heel on plasteel, and his hands make short work of her shorter hair, their noses pressed together as they breathe close-by. She can’t kiss in the spray, or risk a mouthful of soap, but the minute they’re out and in towels… she’s going to eat him up, whole.


End file.
